"We'll give you a hand," the pockmarked man hissed. His ears are full of shit," said one of the men with him, and the second man cackled. "All Rivians are thieves," the pockmarked man went on, his breath smelling of beer, garlic and anger. It did not even occur to him to defend the Rivian. He glanced at the innkeeper, who avoided his eyes. The outsider took his tankard and moved away. "There's no room to be had, you Rivian vagabond," rasped the pockmarked man, standing right next to the outsider. Two of his companions rose behind him, no more than two paces away. A pockmarked beanpole of a man who, from the moment the outsider had entered had not taken his gloomy eyes from him, got up and approached the counter. "I'll pay." The outsider spoke quietly, as if unsure, and the whole nasty affair began. "There is none." The innkeeper finally recognized the stranger's accent. "There's none," grunted the innkeeper, looking at the guest's boots, dusty and dirty. He remained standing at the counter, piercing the innkeeper with his gaze. The stranger did not sit at the table with the few other guests. Beneath his coat he wore a worn leather jerkin laced up at the neck and shoulders.Īs he took off his coat those around him noticed that he carried a sword-not something unusual in itself, nearly every man in Wyzim carried a weapon-but no one carried a sword strapped to his back as if it were a bow or a quiver. The stranger was not old but his hair was almost entirely white. The innkeeper wiped his hands on his canvas apron and filled a chipped earthenware tankard. The outsider, still in his coat, stood stiffly in front of the counter, motionless and silent. The innkeeper raised his head above a barrel of pickled cucumbers and measured the man with his gaze. Not enjoying the best of reputations, it was almost empty. He pulled his horse farther down the street to another tavern, a smaller one, called The Fox. The stranger did not enter the Old Narakort. As usual, at this hour, it was full of people. He stopped in front of the Old Narakort Inn, stood there for a moment, listened to the hubbub of voices. It was hot but the man had a black coat thrown over his shoulders. It was late afternoon and the ropers', saddlers' and tanners' stalls were already closed, the street empty.
He came on foot, leading his laden horse by the bridle. Later, it was said the man came from the north, from Ropers Gate.
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